I write less when I’m happy. There’s a moral in that, isn’t there? Something trite and digestible about the misery of artists being the fuel of greatness, something all the aunts and coffee mugs in the world will tell you in their warmest, throatiest voices.
And then I remember that I’m never happy, which isn’t the same as never being cheerful. If I could solve my problems by complaining about, oh, I don’t know – what have I heard lately? Lazy husbands, high-strung wives, dirty cracker-eating children who leave crumbs, dogs that drool, bum knees and sport injuries and bunions – then I would.
Although one mother who walked in the door and told me “Humidity makes my hemorrhoids worse,” in lieu of greeting continues to puzzle me. Did she think I’d agree? I wasn’t even legal drinking age.